


Tokyo Night

by Mother_North



Series: Dark Matter [7]
Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: Inner reflections, Loneliness, Masturbation, Mirrors, Other, Psychology, Self-cest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-14
Updated: 2018-07-14
Packaged: 2019-06-10 07:58:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15287184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mother_North/pseuds/Mother_North
Summary: Yuzuru is in love and he knows he is loved back.





	Tokyo Night

**Author's Note:**

> An impromptu miniature of mine, written out of the blue.  
> N.B.: A highly probable OOC is present.  
> Usual RPF disclaimer applies to this work of fiction in full and it is not meant to offend anyone.

**

Yuzuru closes his eyes and the city behind a window glass sighs. Night is battling neon lights of innumerable skyscrapers, illumination and advertisements, which are making the skyline glow in a hi-tech, futuristic vision of gargantuan proportions.

Yuzuru loves Tokyo.

It is the city of the new and the old, the city of stark contrasts and endless contradictions, always in motion, its pulse never stopping. It is ready to devour you with its mere scale without a trace anytime, swallow by throngs of people — breathing and hurrying to live, chasing life in all of its manifestations. Yet there is always this feel of heartrending loneliness that seemingly lurks in every corner — the busier the street is, the easier it is to get lost in your own solitude.

Sometimes Yuzuru wishes he could simply get out of his luxurious hotel suite and walk the streets like any other mortal. At times, he dreams of becoming a faceless twenty-something Waseda student who wears glasses and studies with unfailing diligence, letting it all go once in a while, in one of the clubs on the evenings when mundanity and daily orderliness reach levels of intolerance.

It seems ordinary and, perhaps, _too_ normal to ever materialize. His life is of another kind, though — only the highest of expectations, the grandest of triumphs and the bitterest of fails. He lives his life going to extremes inevitably: first ever, the greatest ever, the one and only, a breathing personification of the aspirations of the whole nation and a symbol of undying hope and inner fortitude.

Yuzuru knows what pain is and that the remedy is always inside, he needs these unseen walls around him to function properly, to not be torn by everyone who wants a piece of him be it of sincere adoration or malice intent. It makes him think that he is _not enough_ at times: not enough of a skater, not enough of a son, not enough of a person and he keeps on striving and struggling; he _continues_ (with or without wings, though, it should be noted, that they tend to grow back invariably every single time) chasing an utopic dream of being loved by everyone, for he longs to be loved. He truly does.

Yuzuru knows what love is — to his native country and to the city of Sendai with which he suffered and with which he overcame; to his mother and to his family for whom he is eternally grateful for their everlasting support and care and capability to sacrifice without a word of complaint or reprimand.

Yuzuru wants to give in return; he is trying to give it _all_ constantly — everything he’s got and even more but is it still _enough_..?

He catches his mother’s concerned gazes from time to time, yet she remains stoically silent and he is thankful for not needing to provide answers to questions he is frightened of simply thinking about.

Yet, the worst comes at nights when he is lying wide awake and unable to sleep in his bed, ever alone. Sometimes he takes out two of his golden Olympic medals — tokens of his greatness, dimly shining testimonies to his uniqueness, an affirmation that he has managed to have his name written in the history of sport in non-vanishing letters. His legacy would remain long after he would quit competitive skating, his legend living to inspire next generations — unmarred and untouchable.

Yuzuru squeezes his delicate fingers around the PyeongChang medal and his heartbeat quickens. Its weight grounds him, it reminds him that nothing is impossible, yet it makes him think of all he had to go through to have it lying on his palm now. He endured and it was all worth it — he has zero regrets; there are already new goals and perspectives seen on infinite horizon of his ambitions, quad axel appearing before his mind’s eye with scaring regularity. He latches on this childhood dream of his with all of his might — to be the first in the history of figure skating to successfully land in competition this immensely dangerous and difficult jump.

The King of all jumps should be landed first by _the King_ of the sport himself. It’s as simple as that.

Yuzuru puts two of his medals on the bedside table carefully, his fingertips having traced the rounded edges for the nth time with a guarded adulation. He feels himself ready for whatever challenges future holds in store for him and he firmly believes that being the best in everything he does is what he was truly born for. This realization has never scared him, only making him moving further towards his set in stone objectives with unwavering vehemence and determination of his.

_Per aspera ad astra_ _._

Yuzuru turns to lie on his back, two _dark stars_ shining at him from above, reflected in the surface of a huge ceiling mirror above a king-sized bed. Suddenly, he can’t look away — drowning in impenetrable haze of his twin’s eyes. His gaze wanders to perfect cupid-bow lips, which are slightly parted. He licks them slowly, watching intently the tip of a pink tongue of his own reflection. It stirs something deep inside; it is low-key and hardly identifiable, yet it feels _very_ real — the primal need to touch and be touched becoming too overwhelming to be ignored for a mere instant.

Yuzuru is not the type to deny himself anything; when he wants he _just_ _gets_ — without a second thought and without an ounce of remorse, staying true to his insatiable nature of a natural-born conqueror who despises compromising, be it in giving in to raging flames of his ambitions or those of his innermost desires.

He yanks down his sweatpants impatiently and throws away his black t-shirt, his eyes never leaving the ones staring down at him from the polished surface of the mirror above, their dark intensity making his skin crawl. He drinks in the vision of his naked body, intoxicated with its pale glory — his smooth, chiseled torso, well-defined abs and a pair of powerful thighs, which he spreads unabashedly. He can read undiluted want in his own eyes as his hand is sliding down his frame slowly to start stroking languidly, a breathy moan escaping the lips of his counterpart, as pleasure is spreading itself headily over the body reflected in the mirror. The tempo of his hand is deliberately slow and a bit lazy, for he wants it to last, feeling unmistakable flare of arousal ignite in the pit of his underbelly. His thumb is playing with a slit of his cock teasingly, hips rising up on their own accord, mouth falling open as his double is smiling at him cheekily; a distinct sheen of perspiration is making his skin shine beautifully in the subdued lightning of a bedside lamp.

Yuzuru keeps on looking stubbornly, _challenging_ his own reflection — his body taut as a string, lean muscles quivering slightly as the rhythm of his hand becomes sloppy and erratic. He is so close already, gasping and feverish, reduced to a bundle of overly sensitive nerves.

Summoning all of his willpower, he withdraws his hand abruptly, fingers twisting the crumpled bed sheets; his bottom lip is bitten hard enough to draw blood as tiny droplets of precum are pooling below his navel. His doppelganger is breathing heavily too, smirking at him disdainfully and he catches himself thinking that he wants nothing more than feeling _him_ from the inside, filling _him_ up completely, making that twisted smile disappear from _his_ flushed face.

After all, Yuzuru knows the rules of this little game too well and he’s gotten used to winning it.

_Always._

Yuzuru takes two of his slender fingers into mouth, sucking gently, his tongue playing with their tapered tips obscenely. He watches his counterpart’s pupils dilate with satisfaction as arousal is sweeping over his body anew in anticipation of what is about to come. He brings his bent knees to his heaving chest — exposing himself entirely as he presses at the tight ring of muscles firmly. He embraces the initial pain eagerly because it makes his, reflected in the mirror, twin groan lewdly, a thrilling sting of penetration titillating his aroused to no end senses. Yuzuru is moaning endlessly while opening himself up, fingers plunging deeper and deeper with each demanding thrust — he knows his body like no other and when he twists his wrist in _just the right way_ his back arches off the bed, heels digging into a mattress. He lets his eyes fall shut only for the briefest of moments before meeting _his own gaze_ sternly for he truly wants _to see_ : a vision of his withering form, lost in the throes of vicious delight swiftly becoming powerfully intoxicating to him.

He is imagining what it would feel like to be engulfed by _his own heat_ as small tremors are starting to wreck his body, the mere thought of it making him suffocate, eyes rolling back into his head.     

He _burns_ and _burns_ and _burns_ , as self-inflicted ecstasy is tearing him under an unflinching stare of his mirrored self. Yuzuru’s vision blackens, the whole surrounding world dissolving to non-existence as he is spasming around his fingers in a long-drawn-out orgasm which refuses to subside.

He comes crying out hoarsely, a single name dying at his lips in a passionate plea.

_Yuzuru_

He is a panting and a sweaty mess sprawled on the moist sheets; warm stickiness is bitter on his tongue as he tastes his own essence. He feels absolutely filthy and utterly destroyed, yet his reflection is smiling at him from above sweetly — all gleaming eyes and feverish blush.

He thinks _he_ is achingly beautiful and there is no way in the world he would look away, not from _the one_ he is maddeningly in love with.  

Yuzuru runs a hand through his tousled dark hair, floating on a wave of his post-orgasmic bliss. He feels pacified, an amused little smile lightening up his whole countenance like a single sunray cutting through grey clouds on a gloomy day, for he is positively sure he _is_ loved back _._

Exhaling languidly, Yuzuru recalls all of the heated glances he is constantly receiving from both men and women alike; they are craving his attention — craving _him_ , remaining oblivious to the fact, that his heart has long been taken, ever since he has glanced into a mirror at a charming beaming boy with a pretty mushroom cut; a profound and simultaneously extremely simple realization hitting him on that fine day.

Yuzuru stands up, bare feet touching cool surface of the parquetry, as he goes to a panoramic window which is overlooking a sleepless lane. Neon city lights are dancing all over his naked skin, their whimsical patterns shifting and elusive.

He touches the transparent glass, palm pressing against its smoothness, which is separating him from the outside world securely, as he is staring into the blackness of Tokyo night.

_Alone._

**

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading.


End file.
